The Blind Leading the Lame
by Sevlow
Summary: Post-manga. In the wake of all the death and destruction that has been surrounding them, Mustang has an important proposition for Jean. But on one condition... CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FINAL CHAPTER.


**IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO READ SPOILERS FOR THE END OF THE FMA SERIES, READ NO FURTHER. KTHXBAI**

((A/N: I know I have other fics I should be working on, but I just read the END of FMA yesterday and this popped into my head because of one particularly awesome panel, so I hashed it out quick-n-dirty. Deal with it :D ))

[EDIT]: Wow, Brotherhood came out shockingly close to this, didn't it? My psychic powers manifest in useless ways!

* * *

The bell above the shop's door rang. It was a cheerful, bright little sound that always foretold the entrance of a customer, and Jean typically perked up whenever the he heard it. While this was not his first choice, to be running the family business instead of fighting for his country, Jean could not say that he completely hated this major change in his life... It was different, less stressful. He liked being closer to family and he liked being useful.

Still, he also couldn't deny that he'd loved being able to help out, just a little, in that final battle to end all battles. Mustang's final stand had been greatly aided by something so small as a crippled soldier in a wheelchair sending him supplies, and Jean was glad to have been that cripple. Things were still settling. Everything was so chaotic here in Amestris that one couldn't really say with conviction that the battle was even over yet, but things were certainly looking up. Evil had been defeated, Bradley was dead and Grumman had taken his place at the head of the country. That last part chafed Jean more that a little, however. Mustang deserved the title of Fuhrer more than any person alive. He had orchestrated all of this, he had forced these changes to occur, had laid these plans so carefully... and what did he really have to show for it?

The last Jean had heard they had been planning to force Mustang to retire on account of his blindness. Jean still didn't entirely understand how he'd lost his sight to begin with, some kind of alchemic toll that he'd had to pay against his will... but the cold hard fact was that a soldier cannot serve without a good pair of eyes. Just like a soldier cannot serve with a good pair of legs.

Ha.

Luckily for Mustang, though, it seems that he was able to get an old friend in the medical field—he hadn't specified whom, to _anybody_ as of yet, though he was most certainly an alchemist—to help him try to get his sight back. The public story, however, was the Mustang's blindness had just been temporary, and there was absolutely no mention of this mysterious "friend" beyond Mustang and his staff. It was all very hush-hush.

Jean had heard through the grapevine recently that his vision was better now, but not completely fixed. In any case Mustang had not been forced into retirement at all, but was promoted with high honors to Brigadier General.

And good for him. Truly. Jean had to admit that he'd almost—in some dark, selfish part of his brain—liked the idea of Mustang being handicapped. Not because any kind of sadistic pleasure existed within Jean Havoc. Oh, no, not at all. It was just the idea of them _both_ being retired and disabled... because if Mustang could deal with it without falling into these intense melancholies that Jean was finding to be increasingly frequent—in spite of the smile he always wore—then that would make all of this more bearable. Just having someone else who truly understood what he was going through would make Jean's _entire life_ more bearable.

But still. Good for Mustang. Really.

The bell tinkled again charmingly as the door closed with a gentle snap. Jean sighed and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter, plastering a warm smile on his face. He did like working here, but today he was just not in the mood to deal with customers. Good thing he knew how to fake courteous friendliness. If there was one thing he'd learned from Roy Mustang in his years of service to him, it was how to lie.

"Good morning!" Jean called out, wiping a bit of ash off of his fingers on the blanket covering his useless legs. He wheeled out from behind the counter, toward the door just as his customer came around a large shelf of dried goods. "How are you tod—"

The word caught in his throat as a dry cough, surprise making him swallow it back.

"Hey." Mustang said it flippantly, as if it were absolutely no big deal for him to be here, as if they'd seen each other only yesterday instead of weeks and weeks ago, as if there had been no great, deadly battle at all.

"...Hey, yourself," Jean managed, eyeing him. He didn't look half bad for nearly dying and briefly going blind. He certainly looked tired, but much better than Jean had imagined he'd look. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood."

"I doubt that."

Mustang smirked down at him, then blinked and looked around. The shop wasn't much. It was just a small family business that had been run under the Havoc name for nearly a century. Before his injury, Jean couldn't really say that he'd taken any pride in the shop or felt any real love for it, but now as Mustang was casting around his damning gaze he felt a touch of anxiety, half afraid that it wouldn't measure up to whatever expectations he might have. As Mustang took in the room, however—the shelves of hardware, the walls lined with tools and weapons, the various knickknacks in neat piles on the floor—Jean could see that he was having trouble focusing. He squinted and blinked, then winced as he turned his head and his eyes caught the bright sunlight coming in through the window. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he'd just woken up after a night of heavy drinking and there was a kind of thin grey film over one of his irises.

"...How are the eyes?" Havoc asked him after a moment.

"Not great. But way, way better than they were. Still healing. At least I can see." He blinked again and turned back to Havoc with an unhappy smirk. "Any vision is better than no vision, I suppose. I'm getting fitted for spectacles tomorrow, so that'll help."

While the thought of Mustang in glasses was fairly amusing, Havoc did not smile or comment on it. "Your... ah... 'friend' just couldn't fix them completely, huh?"

He sighed. "No, he could have."

Jean frowned at that. "Well, why didn't he?"

Mustang smiled and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'm not here to talk about my eyes... Think you can duck out of here for a few minutes? Grab a cup of coffee with me?"

Jean checked his watch. Nearly noon. He could close up for lunch a little early, he supposed. Business was slow this morning, and no one would begrudge him a few minutes with an old friend.

"Sure, Boss."

He locked the register, turned the sign in the window to indicate that he was out, then followed Mustang out the door and bolted it.

There was a coffee shop on the corner not too far away. Jean frequently went there on his breaks. He loved the staff and they brewed some of the best damn coffee he'd ever tasted, so he was a frequent patron of the joint and everyone knew him. The girl at the counter, a hot little number with a curly mop of red hair loosely pinned back, gave him a wave and a smile as he wheeled over to his usual table on the patio. He smiled back, wondering when he'd get the courage to ask her out. Not today, certainly. Probably not tomorrow, either. Maybe never. He hadn't had a date since his injury. Being dead from the waist down was a damper on both his confidence and libido, it seemed.

Instead he just ordered two cups of black coffee from her, the way both men liked it, and turned his attentions back to Mustang. He was squinting again, the sun's glare apparently hurting his sensitive, still-healing eyes.

"You wanna sit inside?" Jean offered, thinking that perhaps he should get out of the sun.

"No, it's fine. I have these." He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. He slipped them on with a sigh. "Hate these damn things. I'm supposed to be wearing them all the time, but I never do. They hurt the bridge of my nose."

"Hm. Maybe your new glasses will fit better." Jean said, then snorted. "You're going to look like a complete nerd."

Mustang scowled from behind his dark glasses. "I'm going to look like _Fuery_."

Jean laughed. "Yeah, that's what I said."

"I'm telling him you said that. He'll kick your ass."

"Eh, wouldn't feel it if he did."

Mustang smirked darkly, then leaned back and crossed his arms.

"I'm here for a reason, Lieutenant. To talk about you."

Jean almost reminded him, bitterly, that he was no longer a lieutenant, but he restrained himself. He was tired of telling people that. "What about me?" he asked instead, suspicious.

The colonel—no, Brigadier General, wasn't it?—rested the knuckle of his hooked pointer finger against his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"This," he answered with finality, gesturing at Jean with his other hand, like an art critic with a particularly troubling painting sitting across from him the table. "All of this. I don't like it. You're going to have to lose the wheelchair. It would make active duty too difficult."

Jean's stomach clenched in a wave of cold. Was he _mocking_ him? All this time and _that's_ what he had to say? He dragged him out to coffee just to tell him that he was disappointed by his handicap?

"I can't exactly help it," he replied, his voice low and wounded.

"Yes you can. I know you can."

Jean didn't respond to that. The waitress brought their coffee and the _thunk _of the cups being set down on the table seemed very loud in the sudden silence between Jean and Mustang. The girl, Molly was her name, tipped Jean a quick, adorable smile that Jean only half-realized was meant to be flirtatious. Distracted, he smiled back too late for her to see it, as she'd already turned away to attend to an old man at the next table over. Jean turned back to Mustang and saw him watching her considering over the rim of his sunglasses. Jean bristled automatically.

"I have a proposition for you," Mustang said, his eyes still on Molly's flank. Jean wondered how well he could even see her from this distance. The light caught in his hazed-over eye, giving him an odd, haunting look for a moment. He slipped his glasses back up over his eyes. "But it is going to be hard. And very painful." He cleared his throat and looked over at him. "I assume you have a physical therapist."

"Yes..."

"Ditch him. I'm getting you a new one. I want you back on your feet by winter."

Jean rubbed his face, his hurt and annoyance becoming deep frustration. Damnit, not this again... "Having a new physical therapist isn't going to make me walk again. That has nothing to do with it. We've gone over this before, Mustang. I'm never walking again. End of story. Fuck, why can't you guys accept that? I have."

"I don't accept tragedies that I can change."

"But you _can't _change this!" He slammed his fist down on the white linen tablecloth and the dishes rattled. "There's nothing wrong with my legs, so having a physical therapist help me strengthen them is a wasted effort. I don't need my legs fixed, I need my spine fixed, and no amount of physical therapy or you encouraging me is going to change one damn thing!"

He stopped and took a sip of his coffee, trying to keep himself from getting angry and only succeeding in scalding his tongue. Anguish and frustration had been building up for a long time, crawling under his skin, and something about Mustang's presence and tone was releasing it in a great rush of words. He put the cup down again before continuing:

"I am just so_ tired_ of people telling me that maybe, if I just tried a little harder, or got a new physical therapist, or prayed, or did any of the ten million other things that have been suggested to me—by people who apparently don't know a goddamn thing about spinal injuries—that I might, someday, regain the use of my legs. I think I know pretty fucking well what condition I am in, and whether or not there's even a slight chance of recovery. And if there was a chance, don't you think I would be doing everything possible to make it happen? Don't you think I would be practically killing myself to make progress? I mean, fuck, Mustang..."

The Brigadier General sat quietly, watching him. "Are you finished?" he asked levelly.

"Don't patronize me. If you just came here to tell me I need to get off my ass and try harder, then you can just leave. You're wasting your time."

Mustang stared at him for a long, uncomfortable while. Jean averted his eyes and sipped at his too-hot coffee again, feeling both awkward and incensed. After a moment, Mustang leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table companionably. He took off the sunglasses to fix Jean with a very direct, very bold stare that held no trace of its previous humor.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he said, and clearly meant it. Jean felt a hot rush of shame flood across his cheeks and opened his mouth to apologize for being so aggressive, but Mustang cut him off. "Lieutenant... Jean... I said before that I've come to you with a proposition. I wasn't sure that you'd take it... but now I know that you'll give your all, no matter how difficult, to regain the use of your legs. Am I correct in assuming that?"

"Yes, but—"

"You have permanent spinal damage. Yes. I'm aware. Whether or not you know this, I've researched your injury extensively. Even when we were still in the hospital together, I was trying to fix you."

Jean swallowed. "Then you should know there's no use. Why would you even bring it up?"

"Because, Jean, I _can_ fix you."

Very slowly, quelling the dark bile of exasperation and—dare he even think it?—hope his gut, he asked, "What are you talking about?"

Mustang reached into his pocket again and produced a small vial. It was glass, stopped with a simple, rather old-looking cork. Inside it was some kind of thick, pinkish-red liquid and it glowed faintly in Mustang's cupped hand. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, and the red glow reflected in his dark eyes.

"This, right here, gave me my vision back. There's only so much reliable power left in it. It's gotten a helluva lot of use lately... but I know it's enough. I made sure."

He offered the vial and Jean took it gingerly. His mouth was dry as he stared down at the treasure in his hands, confused and in awe.

"It's yours, if you want it. But in return I want you to come back." Something in Mustang's voice made Jean meet his eyes again. There was pain there, and triumph, and a filial kind of love that made Jean want to grab him and hug him tight. "I need my team back. I need you by my side, now as much as ever. My goals have not changed, and it's my hope that yours haven't either. Are you still with me?"

Jean's numb mouth spoke for him, somehow finding the words in the muddled shock-static of his mind:

"What are your orders, sir?"

A slow, beaming smile spread across Mustang's face. He chuckled and turned his head to look at the old man at the other table. "Was that convincing enough for you, Tim?"

Startled, with mind and heart chaotically spinning, Jean followed Mustang's gaze.

"Hmph," the man called Tim grunted, taking a swig of his tea. His face was horrifically scarred, as if he'd been burned with acid. It took Jean a moment to process that the tightly stretched expression he wore on his wrecked face was actually supposed to be a smile. "Fine. If you think he can handle it, I'm game."

Mustang's grin broadened even further and he glanced back at Jean from the corner of his eye, around the dark frame of his sunglasses.

"He can."

* * *

Mustang hadn't been lying when he'd said—again and again, over the days between his proposal and the actual procedure—that this was going to be hard and painful. Jean had assumed that Mustang had been referring to the months of agonizing physical therapy to follow the alchemic procedure to reconnect the damaged vitals of his spine, but no... That was going to be _nothing_ compared to this, to the procedure itself.

Because, oh, this pain was unbearable.

Jean screamed against the pillow. He'd managed to hold back for the first minute or so, but now it was too much. He wanted to beg them to stop, to tell them that he'd changed his mind, that he'd rather just stay a cripple, but he couldn't even control his screaming enough to get the words out.

He was lying, facedown, on a dingy cot in a dimly lit room. Mustang was holding him down hard against the cot and the clean, but very ragged sheets beneath him were rough against his bare torso. Instead of distracting him from the pain, it only seemed to make it worse.

"I know it's pretty intense, Lieutenant Havoc," Dr. Tim Marcoh—the mystery friend—informed him tensely, finally pausing for a moment in his craft to give Jean a chance to catch his breath. Trembling, Jean sucked in air, nearly gagging. "But it is absolutely crucial that you hold as still as possible for the rest of the procedure. This is where it gets tricky."

Jean nodded to show that he understood, the salt of his sweat stinging his eyes. Mustang's hands, which were on his shoulders bracingly, tightened firmly on his sweat soaked skin, silently telling him that he could still back out if he needed to. And as much as Jean suddenly wanted to say, "Fuck this," and go back to the shop in his sad little wheelchair, because this was just too brutal, he bit down on the folded bit of gauze the doctor had placed between his teeth before starting the operation and braced himself for another onslaught.

If Mustang needed him, he'd endure it. He had pledged himself to him long ago and had renewed that pledge over a cup of coffee just a few days ago.

No. There was no turning back.

Jean reached up with one arm and grabbed Mustang's wrist, squeezing it tight as he felt the heat of the transmutation jolt his spine again. He cried out as the pain shot through him, spreading outward like molten metal from his lower back. He held as still as he possibly could and just bore it. But then, in the midst of his agony, a sudden burst of laughter ripped from his chest.

It was faint at first, but then grew stronger like a thin current of electricity. For the first time in months...

...he could feel his toes.

* * *

"Again."

Jean gasped, slumped in his wheelchair, feeling half dead. "I just did it twice," he wheezed. "I can't do it again."

"Yes you can. Get up."

The physical therapist was a strong, comely woman and Jean was, just very slightly, terrified by her. She was a curvy, amazon-like thing that rarely smiled when they were working and ran her physical therapy sessions like a goddamn boot camp. Even in basic training, Jean had never felt so harassed and worn out as he did after each of their sessions.

It was hard to believe that this was the same Maria Ross he had known for years. Ross had gone to school for therapeutic kinestheology before joining the military and Mustang had hand-chosen her for the task of helping Jean regain his feet again. At first, Jean had wondered what made Mustang think that Ross was a better choice than his previous physical therapist, since that man had been very qualified. But now Jean knew why Ross had been chosen. Oh god, did he know...

"I said get up, soldier!" she roared, in that frightening tone that was becoming entirely too familiar.

"Don't I outrank you?" he pouted.

"NOW."

With a whimper, Jean looked over at Breda in the corner for help. He was standing with his arms crossed on the other side of the room. He was there for brotherly support, and had been through all five of the grueling weeks of therapy thus far, but really he seemed to come just because he liked watching Jean get yelled at.

"You'd better listen to her, or you know Mustang will hear about it," he warned with an amused smirk.

_Mustang._

With a great sigh, Jean allowed Ross to help him to his feet and support him as he steadied himself on the parallel bars. His biceps ached and his atrophy-weak thigh muscles burned as he stood there, arms shaking, completely exhausted but forcing himself to remain upright.

_For Mustang._

Even when he thought he couldn't take another step and would sooner die than go any further, he just had to think of Mustang, and hear those gut-clenching words that Marcoh had whispered replaying in his head...

_It had been right after the procedure. Jean had still been on the cot, shaking with pain and an exhausted kind of elation after nearly a solid hour of agonizing transmutation. His legs. He could feel them. He couldn't really move them much and they hurt like a bitch, but they were there. He had almost wept. Maybe he did weep. Given the traumatic circumstances, he didn't really remember much about that night. What he did remember was Marcoh's words. _

_ Mustang had gone out for a moment to bring Jean some water. In the interim, Marcoh had seated himself by the head of the cot and looked at Jean squarely._

_ "Don't mess this up," he'd said, so abruptly that it made Jean jump a little. He looked back at the scarred man fuzzily, tired and not having any idea what he was talking about._

_ "Stick to your physical therapy. Work yourself into the ground until you get your legs working well enough to join Mustang's team again. If you don't feel like you're dying by the end of each day, you aren't working hard enough."_

_ "I know," Jean rasped, his eyes drooping shut, "I will."_

_ "No. You don't know." Marcoh sighed. "He doesn't want you to know, but I'm going to tell you. Mustang gave up his sight for you. I could have healed his eyes completely. That procedure was far less difficult than yours. But he asked me to reserve enough power in the stone to heal you, because he said you needed it more than he did."_

_ Marcoh propped his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "One of his eyes is nearly blind still. He can only see blurry shadows. The other eye is much better, but not even close to twenty-twenty. There may be enough juice left in the stone still to help him, but neither of us want to risk it after using it as much as I did just now."_

_ He went silent then, perhaps giving Jean a few moments to contemplate the gravity of what Mustang had done for him, and to let the weighty responsibility of this gift sink in. But then he continued, as if reading Jean's mind:_

_ "But I don't want you to feel bad. He was adamant about this. I tried to talk him out of it, but he's the kind of man who always gets his way. I wasn't fully on board with his idea until I saw you and understood how much you both want to piece your lives back together. You're a good man, Jean Havoc, and you mean a lot to Roy... But if I hear that you are flaking on your physical therapy, or not beating yourself near to death with trying to move forward in this... I will personally track you down and kick your sorry behind into the next century, young man. Got it?"_

Even now, in the hospital-clean gym where Jean was dragging himself, step by step, down the path between the therapeutic parallel bars, Marcoh's warning echoed in his soul like a battle cry. No, he would not fail. Mustang owned him, and Jean was going to spend his life repaying this debt.

Jean took another step and his overworked legs tried to buckle. Ross was there to catch him, but he managed to keep his footing on his own. His heart bucked and shuddered with a strained, unnamable fatigue, but with a steadying breath he lurched forward again.

"Good, Jean. Keep going."

And he did. He _would_. Because that was the promise he had made.

He reached the end of the bars and Breda gave a hoot of victory. Ross pulled the wheelchair over and Jean collapsed into it thankfully, the black leather seat feeling blissfully cool through his perspiration-wet clothing. Three passes on the parallel bars was a record for one session and, tired as he was, he allowed himself to bask in the accomplishment. In just five weeks, these clumsy footfalls were getting closer and closer to becoming strong, confident strides. And in five more weeks, who knows where he'd be?

Mustang's prediction of Jean walking by his side by winter was becoming an attainable goal. Tears nearly came to Jean's eyes at that beautiful image.

"That's enough for one day, don't you think?" Ross beamed down at him proudly, a rare treat.

"Y-yes, please," he choked breathlessly, feeling like he was going to puke. But in a good way, he supposed. She and Breda both laughed, and the big man clapped him on the shoulder.

Jean went to bed that night sore and content. Tomorrow, he would call Marcoh. He was currently with Mustang in the East, getting used to living the life of a normal military man again and not a fugitive. All charges against him by the state had been dropped. He was a free man, and he checked in on Jean frequently. He had no doubts in his mind that the typically kind old man would keep his promise if Jean did not keep his. The old doctor would be happy to hear of his progress today. And he would most likely tell Mustang. Any small victory was worth reporting, right?

He folded his aching arms behind his head and smiled up at the ceiling.

"Soon," he promised himself.

And Marcoh.

And Mustang.

And the whole damn world.

Grinning, he closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

((A/N: in my honest opinion, the greatest part of that final chapter was Havoc's physical therapy. It made me so happy. Thanks for reading!))


End file.
